


Mine(field)

by IMAgentMI, PFLAgentYork (Legendaerie)



Series: RP-verse [10]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Altered Mental States, Battle, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Protectiveness, Rescue, Serious Injuries, York gets mad and Carolina finds it hot, must protect the mate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 10:29:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16931580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IMAgentMI/pseuds/IMAgentMI, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legendaerie/pseuds/PFLAgentYork
Summary: All it takes is one wrong step.





	Mine(field)

Running through the crumbling streets of an abandoned city, Carolina tries to stick to wherever the roads are darkest, trying to stay out of sight best she can and avoid the red dots on her HUD that represent enemy troops in her vicinity. There are friendly troops just a street away, but she is in a hurry and opting for empty streets for speed. She is fast enough that by the time anyone sees her as a threat, she is long gone, with or without her speed boost.

“York, I'm on my way to rendezvous with North and Wash. It looks like the battle is heating up in their quadrant and UNSC troops are in danger of being overwhelmed.” A small crowd of red dots change direction on her screen, but she simply puts on another burst of speed - she is well past the intersection point in seconds and again out of danger. “I need you to swing around and pick up Wyoming and South. As soon as I reach North I will send you our coordinates.”

“All right, boss.” He’s getting a little tired but York will be damned if he admits that; both from constant recoil from the shotgun and the fact that the blood that spatters with each round of shot is red. Killing humans, other soldiers of his own species and own language, is never a good day. And killing in these seemingly never ending numbers is even worse.

“I'm seeing a lot more troop movement on the west side of the city here. Before there were just scouts and snipers sneaking in and I would pick them off wherever I found them.” Another group. Carolina picks up speed again. “But now I'm seeing small squads moving through alleyways. We are going to need to send drones in to sniff them out or there are going to be ambushes all through the city. Or worse yet, they could be laying mines. Fuck. We have to find where they are coming through our defences and--" a new cluster of red pops up on her screen late, almost on top of her as she runs straight into enemy troops.

Carolina hisses through her teeth at the surprise. She doesn't waste time going for fatal wounds for the first two she barrels into, simply hamstrings them both with her knives to keep them from following and to sow confusion with their screams. She sheathed her knives in the same motion that draws her magnums and she continues her charge through the squad, blowing through to the other end, leaving four dead from her own shots and the same amount again dead by friendly fire in the confusion.

Ahead she sees UNSC forces appearing from side streets, drawn to the noise, and behind her the sound of soldiers screaming and scrambling to get away. She's only a hundred feet away from the UNSC troops now and that's when she notices. The abandoned shovels. The fresh dirt, loose stones and broken pavement.

“Get back!” she screams and desperately leaps, hoping against hope to clear.

But someone must have gotten impatient. She is still in the air when the mine detonated, throwing fountains of sand and stone into the sky. She doesn't even have time to scream as the force hits her, throws her like a broken doll. Above her, the blue sky fades to gold, and Carolina's world is drowned in dust.

——

From across the city, York’s helmet erupts with Carolina’s urgent, terrified orders; and then, worst of all, her silence. It breaks his rhythm and he would have taken a bullet to the visor by standing stock still, all the heat of the day vanishing and leaving him cold and numb with dread, if the soldier in front of him had aimed. Instead the shot misses, and York shatters his helmet with the butt of his gun, then his trachea.

“Oh my,” Wyoming remarks from his sniper nest. “Sounds like a pickle.”

At his six, South hisses, “Explosion four streets up.”

_Allison._

 York shakes his head and aims another shot into the enemy ranks, trying to focus. He has orders from her to get them out, but--

_Allison._

He searches, desperately, for a way to end the fight, feeling the precious seconds slip away; feeling Carolina bleeding out a few streets up. Panic is no way to win a fight, but when he taps Delta all he hears is--

_Allison!_

A few paces away, someone steps up onto a car with a rocket launcher. Faster than thought, York surges through the mixed forces, leaping onto the car and grabbing the barrel just as it fires. If had been heat seeking, he would have fired into his own ranks. Instead, misguided at the last second, it spirals over the heads of both armies and by sheer miracle collides with the spindly support of a massive, long-abandoned billboard.

In the crowded quarters, no one has anywhere to go. Groaning, the thick panels fall face-first into the ranks, taking out a solid third of the opposing army and a good dozen UNSC rank and file. But York is already turning back, sprinting past shell-shocked soldiers and nudging South on his way past.

“Carolina,” he asks, voice tight, “status?”

\---------

Gold.

_York._

Carolina blinks, but all there is is gold, across her entire vision. Her ears are ringing and a miasma of pain rises through her, nearly choking her back into unconsciousness. She swallows weakly to keep nausea at bay.

_York._

She becomes aware of the ground, her contact with it, armour against stone. It is the only thing that gives her any sense of up or down, and she holds tight to that awareness. It isn't enough to tame the vertigo that makes the ground lurch below her, and her first movement is to dig her fingers into the gravel beneath her, trying to hang on.

She closes her eyes against the gold, the pain and the sickness, and for the first time is aware of sound, of a voice beyond the roar that still obliterated that sense.

_York?_

She opens her mouth to speak, but vertigo and nausea blast her together and all she can manage is a groan.  
_______

“Carolina?” he repeats, unable to keep the frightened edge out of his tone. A couple more voices chime into the channel, but he can't identify who they are. The only voice that matters to him is silent.

He gives the rattled troops one last look, then catches South’s eye. She takes her hand off her gun long enough to throw him a dismissive gesture. _Go. We got this._

York turns on his heel and runs.

It's easy enough to track her location based on the cloud of dust; of all the Freelancers his armor blends the best with the terrain, softened to khaki under the grime, and he sprints straight for Carolina’s dot on his HUD with no regard to the firefights around him. Once, someone tries to grab him, and York spares just enough of a look to ensure they’re not on his side before he ducks out of the grip and snaps the man’s neck.

The scene is settling when he rounds the corner, but not in his favor. A building had been seriously damaged, chunks of it fallen to the ground exposing concrete and rebar. And bodies, sprayed away from the nexus of the blast, limbs bent unnaturally or missing altogether, but York only has eyes for the flash of aqua blue and the small squadron of enemy soldiers in between them.

“Carolina,” he says, softly, in time with another name whispered in his mind.

——

As the nausea passes, she opens her eyes again and the gold around her is breaking. The sky is still shrouded above her, but buildings loom up in her vision on either side. The ringing in her ears is dying down, and voices are discernable, but seem distant. She tries to focus on them, to find meaning in the syllables, but the harder she tries, the more nonsensical they become.

Time is difficult to measure, but she has been lying here too long, exposed and blind to anything happening around her. She has to move. She has to get up.

The world spins around her again as she tries to bring an arm up, panting with the effort as she attempts to roll over. She gets nearly halfway, before a rock somewhere beneath her blocks her way, grinds her to a stop. The effort boils sickening black spots across her vision and Carolina falls back, helpless. She turns her head to see out-of-focus figures picking their way toward her, bodies and rubble around her both reduced to the same dull hazy shapes.

She moans again, and the only word that hasn't crumbled into gibberish in her head finally breaks free.

“York…”

——-

His heart reaches out to her, assured that she is still alive. And in the next moment, he is turning to face down the squadron in his way.

“Um,” one of them starts, staring at the unarmed man in Mark IV armor. The weren't told to expect back up so quickly. “Who…?”

York starts to walk forward, gaze locked on the other soldier. There's a length of rebar sticking out of a small block of concrete; without breaking his stride York wraps his hands around it and pulls, dragging it behind him.

A couple more soldiers turn his way, drawn by the rasp of stone on stone. “Oh, what the fuck,” one of them says as York’s pace picks up.

Inside his helmet, Delta is back online. _It appears the place is laced with mines. I have flagged them and their radius accordingly. Avoid the orange circles and tread carefully._

York’s HUD lights up with color, but he has a clear path dead ahead so he breaks into a run, dragging the rebar behind him.

“For fucks sake, shoot him,” squawks their leader, but it's too late. York is already lifting the concrete brick off the ground and slamming it into their baffled, scrambled front line. Bones and stone erupt and shatter, and York lets the momentum spin him like a top, plowing into the next row. With every blow, the concrete crumbles further and becomes less devastating; but York’s strikes are faster and faster, and in close quarters the dozen or so men stand no chance.

When the last piece falls away, York’s weapon transforms from a sledgehammer to a pugil stick, spinning in his grasp and striking like a snake at hands, feet, heads, anything it can reach. Gunshots ring out, but no bullets stop him, and as his opponents dwindle down to two York ducks a punch, adjusts his grip, and impales both soldiers with one momentous shove. A snap to their necks ends their screaming, done with all the detachment and precision of ripping wings off a butterfly.

With the way cleared, his progress never halted or deterred more than a step to either side, York approaches Carolina.

—-

More gold. This time not a haze or cloud, but a giant, towering over her, splashes and streaks of red down his armour. Comprehension seems to be leaking out of her, grain by grain, and it is more habit than recognition that brings his name to her lips.

“York.”

“Hey,” and he kneels beside her, voice soft and gentle as it is in their shared mornings, when she’s just waking up to his fingers tracing the curves of her body. He’s touching her now, too, but checking the extent of her injuries.

“Delta, access her biodata. What are we looking at?”

_Moderate to severe concussion. Agent Carolina is currently experiencing an altered state of consciousness and is processing events with difficulty. No further internal injuries. Secondary injuries include mild to moderate muscle contusions, minor lacerations._

There’s a beat of silence, York waiting for a longer list that blessedly doesn’t come. “Then I can move her.”

Without hesitation, he picks her up, easing her over his shoulders in a fireman carry. “Easy, easy, I got you,” he murmurs as he settles her there, wishing her could hold her but knowing he’ll need a hand free in case of trouble. There’s movement in the rubble, sounds of soldiers stirring. He can't afford to wait to see if they’re friend or foe.

“D, upload your estimated map of the mines to all nearby friendly HUDs.”

The surge of power it takes to broadcast the information makes York’s next step a stagger, his eyes squeezing shut from a stab of pain from his AI port. He forces himself to take the next step anyway, each pace carefully measured away from the danger, and he prays the blood dripping down his armor at every step doesn't belong to either Freelancer.

Within moments of being hefted into position, Carolina's head is swimming. The blood rushing down gives new life to her headache, while at the same time stifling her pain and awareness as though wrapping her in a too thick blanket, sealing her off from the outside world. “York,” she murmurs again, the familiarity of the word pleasant on her tongue. “York, York, York.” It's comforting and comfortable, and she holds tight to it even as the blackness closes in. “York, York, York, York...Yor--"

“Niner, I need a med pick up immediately. Where are you?”

_“Far south side of the city. Those anti air guns still up?”_

“Think so.” York recalculated his route, walking quickly through the minefield. If he doesn't get Carolina medical help soon, she might die. No point in taking the longer, safer road.

He’d hated hearing her chant his name, but he hates it more now that she's silent.

_“I'm gonna fly low and--”_

“I'm coming to you. Might have more-- following me. Middle of a minefield, you better stay back.” Sweat is running down his forehead now, all the power in his suit focused on carrying the weight across his shoulders and keeping up his almost-sprinted pace. “Rendezvous at Sis-- Stesis and 24th?”

_“I can clear the way,”_ Florida volunteers.

“Better not. Don't wanna lose anyone else to mines. Don't know how far they go, and without an AI they're hard to spot.”

Movement on the corner of his eye; before he can even register the uniform Delta flags it hostile, and they fire three shots from Carolina’s pistol without aiming. The soldier collapses. York winces.

“Thanks, D.”

_“Florida and I will go bail out Wash and North, then,”_ South offers. _“Wyoming?”_

_“Gamma and I are already on the way. We’ll be your eyes, York. Since you've only got one.”_

The fight isn't over, which he’s glad for. York is shaking from adrenaline and exhaustion both, and for once he longs to get back into the fray and tear through their ranks like a fox in a henhouse. “You with me, Carolina?” he asks, switching to a local only frequency.

A familiar voice pulls her back to the surface. Carolina blinks, feeling motion that only confuses her further, and is distantly aware of being restrained. Her first impulse is to lash out, to kick herself free, but her brain scrambles the messages to her body and she only manages to squirm uncomfortably. Her elbow nudges something hard and she huffs her displeasure.

“Easy, easy, it's York, I've got you. Stay still.” She’d caught him in the jaw, but any discomfort is outweighed by relief. If she's still moving, she’s still alive.

The words mean something, and if she could just think clearly enough it would all snap into place, it would all make sense. But by the time they reach her, all meaning has blown away, like dandelion tufts on the wind. Still, his tone gets through and she calms again, only fidgeting when York steps heavily to avoid debris.

Niner’s ship touches down at the end of the road several blocks away. York breaks into a jog to meet her, trying not to jostle Carolina too much.

“Thanks,” he puffs once he’s within sight of the ship, close enough to see the medical staff waiting. They have an infirmary on the edge of town, but with the possibility of mines it's not safe to drive. His breath tastes like smoke and metal from the strain.

_“Oh, hey, Maine, I didn't know you were on this mission.”_

York glances down at his armor, pale with dust but more than anything splattered with blood. “Very funny, Niner,” he pants, stopping at the foot of the ramp as the ship hovers inches from the shattered, weed riddled pavement.

Carolina jerks against Yorks grip as the engines roar and the kick up dust around them. The assault on her visual, auditory and tactile senses is nearly a physical blow, and gasping, she tries to pull herself free of him. But since she tries to do this by pulling on his armour, she only clings to him tighter.

Her movements threaten to throw him off balance, but then other hands are lifting her from his shoulders. It should be a relief, but it hurts not to reach for her as she is taken from him.

“York?” Carolina tries to lift her head to see him, but is quickly moved further into the ship, out of sight. Medics are already stripping off her armour a piece at a time, even as the ease her down onto a gurney. Hands grip the sides of her helmet ready to pull. “York…” She feels weight on her shoulders, holding her steady. There is a slight pressure, the helmet gives way, and the connection is broken.

His heart breaks, right there in the middle of a minefield, and with a sudden burst of energy he leaps into the back of the Pelican, pulls off his helmet to match and ignores Delta’s flash of alarm.

“You're gonna be okay, Carolina. You’re with Niner. I'll--”

York wants to badly to say more, to press his lips to hers and kiss her until she falls asleep, but there are people around. Instead he swallows, wipes sweat off his forehead and leaves a trail of blood and dirt in its place.

“I'll see you after the battle,” he murmurs, replacing his helmet and backing off the ship.

Too many people, too many words, but somewhere through it is that familiar voice, distant now. “York…” Something is placed over her face and she can hear a faint hiss of air. The overwhelming babble around her calms and she settles as well, breathing in oxygen and beginning to relax. Carolina closes her eyes and sighs, drifts as the hatch closes and the Pelican rises to speed back to the medical unit, patient inside.

On the ground, York watches it fly away, heartsick and praying that he didn't just lie to her about returning.

**********

Carolina squeezes her eyes shut against the light of the evening sky, shuddering as her gurney is pushed away from the UNSC temporary hospital and onto a waiting Pelican. Her senses are no longer quite so scrambled, but with that refocus comes a new, painful intensity. One of the two med assistants accompanying her on the way back attempts to place an eyemask over her head and Carolina swats him away as they make their way up the ramp.

The interior of the Pelican is mercifully dark, but the Pelicans engines in atmosphere cannot be anything but loud. It's excruciating, but when the same medic comes forward with ear guards, she waves him away again. The medics set to work securing the gurney for flight, one taking care to check her monitor and the IV line hanging behind, adjusting the line to ensure a steady flow. As Carolinas eyes adjust, she can finally make out the silhouettes of the other people on the ship with her. All seem to be in one piece, but Wyoming seems to be watching her closely.

Until another Wyoming speaks to Washington on the other side of the Pelican, pulling off his helmet, and she realizes the man in the pale and red-streaked armor is York.

What she had assumed was dirt was the original gold color of his armor gleaming in places from under a thick layer of concrete dust. As thick as what had coated her own armor before the med staff had removed it to treat her. He's leaning heavily against the wall, breathing steady. If he's even awake, it's hard to tell, but the way his helmet is angled gives the impression that he’s studying her.

“York?” Uncaring of who sees, Carolina reaches over the thin metal railing of the gurney.

“Hey,” comes a small voice filtered through the static of his helmet speaker; then York leans forward, pulls off his helmet and takes her hand. “How you feelin’?” His smile gives her the feeling of holding a cup of hot coffee in cold hands, warming her unseen.

Next to her, the med tech cleared his throat, giving York a serious, but not unkind look. “Under the circumstances, please try to be brief and calm. With severe head injuries, the patient need the least about of stimulation possible.” To punctuate his point, he sets the eyemask and ear guards on Carolina's lap before stepping back again. Being talked past raises Carolina's hackles, she swallows that anger before it can restart the throbbing in her temples.

She turns her attention back to York. “Sore,” she answers honestly, brushing her thumb over his fingers. “Everywhere. Sore.” And in another fit of honesty -- “Exhausted.”

“We’ll be home soon,” he assures her. “Rest.”

“Not yet.” She gives him a look. “When I woke up, no one would give me any details. About the battle. What happened. Where my team was.” Goddammit, there's that throbbing again. “Everyone make it out okay? I can't-- can't remember who was sent in with us.” She turns to look at the rest of her team, counting the faces she doesn't see, and dreading the answer.

South finally looks up from picking at her armor. “All freelancers safe and accounted for. UNSC losses around 36%, last I heard. We won.”

“North, South, Florida, Wyoming, Wash, York,” and he points to himself, “and you. You got the worst of us all.”

“I almost lost an arm,” North comments from the far side of the Pelican.

South snorts and kicks him, making the attendant checking the bandages on his arm drop a roll of gauze. “Yeah, _almost_. Quit whining.”

Carolina sits back, rubbing at her temples, then with eyes still closed, snatches up the eyemask she left unguarded on her lap, just as the medic makes a grab for it. Twisting enough to face him would almost certainly bring on another attack of vertigo, in addition to exacerbating the pain she is already in. But she hisses her displeasure in short clipped words.

“Stop. Doing. That.”

York falls to his knees beside the cot, resting his cheek on his elbow. Not like it matters if more dirt gets on it now, not like it matters if the attendant is staring at him. He’s tired, too. Probably pulled a few muscles back there, but he’s not bothered to bring it up.

“Always the boss, huh?”

“Hmm?” It's harder to concentrate as the pain increases, first as a halo around her head, then the rest follows in a wave of vertigo. She reaches for the railing to reassure herself that she isn't actually about to fall out of the bed and squeezes her eyes shut.

Instantly, his good mood vanishes. “What's wrong?” he asks, alarm spiking through his body.

She doesn't answer at first, just lays back again on the gurney, one hand over her eyes and a white knuckles grip on the railing. When she finally brings herself to talk, it comes out in a strained whisper.

“Hurts.”

York waves the medical attendant back over. “Anything we can do?” he asks both of them.

“It really would be best to cut out as much of the sensory stimulation as possible. After severe head trauma, what the brain needs more than anything is rest. Dark, quiet. Sleep.”

The man's voice is calm, pleasant, and compassionate, but irritation grates at Carolina as though he was touching raw nerves.

“Shut up! Just.. stop! Shut up!”

“Hey,” York takes her hand and squeezes it. “Easy. Be nice.”

“And you! The last-- the last thing I need--" Carolina grits her teeth, takes a shuddering breath. She goes noticeably paler but her grip on the bar doesn't loosen. “I'm sorry. It just-- hurts--and I can't even-- can't even think--"

“I know it hurts,” the medic says. He keeps his voice low and soothing but stays deliberately out of arm’s reach. “And there are things we can do to help. Your friend can stay with you, that's okay. But it really would help if you would be willing to put on--”

Carolina balls up the eyemask and throws it as hard as she possibly can, narrowly missing York with her fist. The little piece of black fabric only makes it about halfway across the hold before fluttering to the floor, which only enrages her further. North watches it land and gets up to retrieve it, but Carolina sits straight back up again, pointing a warning. “Don't touch it.”

“Hey.” York’s voice is a little firmer, even as he weaves their fingers together. “Be _nice_.”

“Don't you start on me too.” It comes out as a snarl, but the hand holding his doesn't pull away. In fact, her other hand cups over them both, gentle but trembling with emotion.

“As if I ever stopped,” he teases, bringing their hands up to his face to nuzzle her fingers for a moment before laying them back down.

She softens again in the face of his tender gesture, not even looking up to see who else may have noticed. But then the medic moves in the corner of her vision. “Would you stop hovering? _Fuck off_.”

York throws the guy an amused glance. “I’d say she's not always like this, but…”

Safely behind Carolina a back, the medic rolls his eyes dramatically, and moves back to find a seat against the wall, joined soon by his partner. They whisper together as softly as they can over the engines, there's a quick game of paper rock scissors, and the medic who had been speaking with York sighs heavily, gets up and walks around back into Carolina's line of sight. “I am supposed to check your vitals during the trip - I can probably get away with just doing it only the one time and not get written up when I get back. That okay?”

Carolina lip twitches and she refuses to meet his eye, keeping her gaze on York instead. His face never changes from a neutral smile, but after a moment she sighs. “ _Fine_. But make it quick.”

The man's shoulders slump in relief, and he steps forward, taking a small device out of a belt holster and scanning her quickly, all the while standing as far away as he can manage and still reach. Carolina ignores him completely, eyes still on York.

“I think these guys would rather still be ground side,” he comments, lacing his fingers in and out of Carolina’s, a weary smile. “Want me to lead up the debrief?”

“I don't think I'm going.” Carolina swallows back another wave of nausea as he room tilts again. She closes her eyes but it only make the sensation worse and she hurriedly opens them again. “Think they're taking me straight to medical. This one is yours.”

“Understood, boss. I'll do my best.” York gives her hand a gentle squeeze and settles down next to her, pillowing his cheek on his forearm. It's not very comfortable, but his body aches from a full day in combat.

The medic finishes his scan and steps clear, then frowns at York. “Hey, you okay?”

“Just tired.”

Delta shimmers into visibility. “ _Agent York is suffering from a mild case of strained muscles, dehydration, and a bullet graze on his right thigh._ ”

He cracks an eye. “Really? Didn't notice.” What he doesn’t say is that there was so much blood on him already, he didn’t notice that some of it was his.

The man frowns, looking York up and down with a weighing expression. “I’d like to take a look at it, scan you if I can. You seem to be holding together, and your colour is good, but if you aren't feeling pain, I would like to rule out shock. Uh, green guy?” he asks, addressing Delta. “How severe is the bleeding? Does it need to be addressed now or can it wait until you're back on your home ship? Given the option, is like to leave any necessary stitching to someone with the resources to do it more safely than I could in transit.”

“ _The injury is not life threatening. I cannot tell for sure but I expect the bleeding has stopped_.”

York hums. “Need me to stand?”

“No, after this amount of time I should be able to tell by your blood pressure and pulse how bad it was - if it is worrisome, then I'll ask to see it. I can do it like this, but if you sit up, it'll be easier to get an accurate reading. Also keeps me from scanning you both by accident and thinking you have two hearts.” The medic pulls out his device again, activating it and waiting for York's response.

He throws Carolina the briefest of looks at the two hearts comment, then levers himself to his feet. Sitting back down, he waits for the medic to scan him, still feeling the heat of Carolina’s fingers.

The medic scans York from head to hips, then down his injured leg twice. He examines his screen a moment before registering the device. “Pulse strong and even, BP a little low but stable.” He places the back of his hand against Yorks forehead. “Skin isn't clammy, has good colour. You're good to wait until you get back, but see someone quick quick about that graze - if it needs stitching best do it ASAP.”

“Thanks.” He tries not to fidget as the medic finishes up and turns his back, even if he's itching to come back to Carolina’s side.

“Let me know if anything changes - it helps to know before you collapse, but that's a luxury I rarely get with Freelancers.” He flashes a smile, and starts packing up. “Shouldn't be much longer. Try and stay comfortable best you can. I can radio ahead if you think you'll need assistance getting down to medical?”

“I walked to the ship with it, I think I’ll be fine. If not, I'll try to fall on something soft. Thanks.” He sits forward, grinning at Carolina. “I'll meet you there, I guess, right?”

“I'll save you a bed,” she murmurs. Pain and fatigue are starting to drag her down and she reaches for his hand before closing her eyes again, this time sighing with relief when the room doesn't spin. He takes her hand, stroking her knuckles, and settles on his knees beside her gurney again.

Face buried in his arms, and Carolina’s hand in his, York closes his eyes and settles in to doze.

\----------

Carolina takes a breath and tries not to put her fist through the wall.

After spending forty eight hours in sensory rest, lying in dim light, with no sound, no company, she was itching to do something, anything. However, the doctor in charge of her care prescribed an addition two days off duty, with no strenuous physical activity, before further evaluation. A trip down to the mess hall was almost too much to bear, seeing teammates and Freelancers of all stripes in their armour, going about their day. So she made her way back to her room to pace, glaring at the walls, but not trusting herself to go out. The urge to go down to visit at the team workout or watch her teammates sparring was strong, but she didn't trust that once she was down there that she could stop herself from suiting up, against doctor’s orders. So she stayed in her room and fumed.

After two hours of self-imposed imprisonment, she had already reorganized her dresser, stripped and remade her bed, started and then set aside half a dozen books and attempted to take a nap. Now she lay on her back in her bed, throwing a pair of socks at the ceiling with one hand and attempting to catch it in the other, all the while knowing that the first time she actually drops it, she might explode.

After two minutes of this game, Carolina catches the sock-ball in her left hand and freezes. She sits up, blinking as though in a daze, then jumps off the bed and head straight for her desk. Her tablet is resting in its charger and she snatches it up, sitting down eagerly in her chair. Her biodata, mission logs and helmet cam footage from their last battle should all have been uploaded days ago, and there is nothing that the doctor said that would prohibit her from reviewing them. She finally can do something worthwhile, something productive.

It's the work of a moment to sign in to the Project’s archive and pull up her personal data. She brings up her biodata charts, giving them only a cursory glance. She minimizes the window -- she'll take a second look after she reviews the footage -it'll be easiest to understand when she can examine the two side by side. She opens the transcription of her audio, and minimizes it as well. Then she opens the video from her helmet cam.

Her memory of the entire day, both before and after the incident are hazy, and the actual explosion she doesn't remember at all. It's hard to tell if the things she does remember are true memories, or merely her brain filling in the gaps with what the doctors and her teammates told her, during their very brief visit between the time she was freed from sensory rest and when she was actually allowed to go home. So it is with a mix of curiosity and dread that she opens the folder with her video footage, selects the file and hits play.

She skips past the first bit -- there is no need to cover the early moments while they were just leaving Niner’s Pelican, nor any of the time before her team had split off in different directions, squads of UNSC grunts in tow. She moved past a large section the battle, anytime she was surrounded by people. She was alone just before it happened, that much she knew. So when the screen finally showed her racing through empty streets, Carolina sat back and paid attention.

Footage of her running through the enemy soldiers was short and chaotic, the screams and gunshots barely heard before she was already through and picking up speed again. She missed the signs on the screen that she had seen in real life, and after the explosion, Carolina traced back to the moment her camera caught the broken, dug up streets, then watched the moment of the explosion a second time. The spinning, tumbling movement of the camera as she flew through the air was awful to see, but she continued to watch dispassionately until her body came to a stop, camera staring up into the dust cloud that for a time blinded the entire street.

For a long while, nothing happens. But with a screen of nothing but golden dust, it’s hard to make out anything at all. If she’s moving, it’s almost impossible to tell in the field of flat colour, so Carolina waits. Something is going to happen, she just needs to be patient.

It takes a little while before anything does happen, but finally there is a lightening as the dust falls out of the sky or blows away on the breeze. Carolina can finally make out movement, the way the camera rocks as on the screen as her past self struggles to get up. Finally, the camera goes still again, and the camera turns left, looking along the broken ground, bodies and debris in as sharp of focus as the soldiers stepping through them, advancing on her. Even just watching, even knowing everything will turn out fine, an icicle slides down Carolina’s spine.

Then she sees it - the movement behind the enemy squad. A single soldier striding into view, gold armour dulled by dust. She sees him stop, staring in her direction.  
York starts moving forward again, and with no other sign she knows that his focus has left her and is completely on the squad between them. She sees him seize a piece of metal as he goes, and sits up in her chair when she realizes he is dragging a massive chunk of concrete after him. The other soldiers start to take notice, and as they do, York picks up his pace, raises his arms and Carolina’s eyes go wide.

She freezes in her seat, rigid with shock, watching every blow, the broken bodies falling onto the corpses already littering the street. Each blow is accompanied by an explosion of dust and a spray of concrete shrapnel, the blows coming faster and explosions weaker as York single-handedly lays waste to the entire enemy squad. He skewers the last two and Carolina covers her mouth as he finishes the execution with only his gloved hands.

He is already turning away from the bodies before they have even finished settling on the ground, crossing the remaining distance to take a knee at her side, and Carolina hits the pause button.

She sits that way for a long time, staring at the screen, at York reaching tenderly for her, crushed and bleeding bodies staining the ground behind him. The knock that sounds at the door has her jumping out of her skin.

“It’s me,” says York in the present, voice muffled through the door. “Can I come in?”

“York?” The name almost feels strange on her tongue now, and she struggles to keep her voice low and normal. “Yeah- yeah, come in.”

He eases the door open, approach slow in the dim light. “I’m allowed to feed you, right? Because I brought lunch for two. Even if you need the quiet, figured you might like the company.”

For a second she can’t manage to answer, fingers locked on the tablet, eyes wide. “Yeah. Okay. That’d be nice.”

“What’re you reading?” he asks, finding the desk chair and setting both trays of food down on it. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell on you.”

Her mind races, flitting through a hundred lies, diversions and excuses. Ways to distract him, set it down, move on to other things. And every single one feels wrong.

She waits until the trays are down, and holds out the tablet in an only slightly shaky hand. “This.”

York blinks. “Oh,” he says softly. Standing in front of her, torn with indecision, he tries to study her face in the dark. Apologizing seems the safest bet. “... I wasn’t disobeying orders. I made sure South and Wyoming were okay before I left.” Or excuses. Those work, too.

Nothing in her face changes, but Carolina stands, faces him. Her head is aching, a pulsing halo tightening against her skull. “That--” Her voice is shaky and she tries again. “You came for me. I mean, I knew you did, but you--” she gestures at the tablet. “You came for me and -- that. You just -- I couldn’t _believe_ \--”

Now that he’s not in the heat of the moment, York squirms. “Of course I came for you,” he says at last. “So long as I have legs, or arms, or a heartbeat, I’ll come for you.” Even if it goes against direct orders, too. “Are you mad at me?”

She doesn’t answer, but takes another step closer, her eyes never leaving his.

“Are you… afraid of me?” he asks, his heart breaking with dread.

In reply Carolina grabs the front of his shirt and jerks him closer. One hand keeps a firm grip on his shirt while the other seizes his hair and she crushes him to her in a desperate, thirsty kiss.

She pulls back abruptly, eyes softening even as her grip does not. “You did that for _me_.”

“I’d do it again,” he whispers, his heart pounding. And then, as his senses return, “did I look cool?”

Carolina bites her lip as she looks him up and down, then with no other warning shoves him backwards onto the bed. The mattress has barely stopped bouncing before she is crawling up his body, holding herself above him so that her hair falls down around his head, creating a tiny bower for him to rest in. “Not as cool as you do right now.” Another kiss, wet and heavy and she finishes with his lip between her teeth, growling. “And you’re making me so hot.”

“Oh,” he says for the second time in as many minutes, blood rushing south so fast his head spins. “Ohhh,” because she’s still biting him and fuck, it feels really good. “Ohhhhhhh,” is all he can do when she won't give him his mouth back to talk and he wraps his arms around her and kisses her back to slip his tongue inside her mouth.

Her headache continues to throb, but Carolina barely even registers it. All she can focus on is York -- with his arms around her back, his tongue in her mouth and the rising heat between them as she straddles his waist. She grinds against him to catch his gorgeous quavery moan between her lips, then ducks down to shower kisses over his throat and shoulders.

“You--” she murmurs as she works. “I love you-- York--”

“Love you-- love you too-- god, you don't know. I don't even know-- how far I’d go for you. As far as I could, and beyond that.” He hadn't enjoyed what he’d done, but it has left him satisfied in a primal sort of way. Assured that he could protect what he loved. This, too, taps into that part of him, and he shoves his hands under her shirt to stroke her waist.

One hand slides down to cover York's, and Carolina pulls back just enough so she can see his eyes as she guides his hand up to cup her breast. The tightness in her head is intruding on the moment and she closes her eyes, resting her forehead to his, enjoying his touch and craving more, even through the pain.

He follows her silent orders, caressing her with tender, heated touches and scraping his teeth along her neck.

“Lay down. Lemme do the work.” It's closer to an order than a request, his voice deep and humming, but it comes from a place of empathy more than dominance.

She kisses him one last time before she allows him to roll her over, and when her head comes to rest on the mattress, Carolina’s sigh is as steeped with relief as arousal. She attempts to corral him in with her legs, her own hands teasing up under her shirt. He shoves her shirt above her breasts, and lowers both his mouth and his voice.

“If anyone touches you,” he growls, “I'll tear them apart. We’re a team. And you will never be an acceptable loss.”

He forces her bra up and over her breasts and the warmth of York's mouth closing over her nipple wrings all the air out of Carolina's lungs. Her legs come up, locking behind York's back to pull him roughly down on top of her.

“You are the only one I want to touch me. Every part of me.” She tries to look down, to see his mouth tasting her skin, but the bra is in the way. That blind spot, that small denial sets a fire in her skin, and the wet heat off his tongue only fans the flames.

The sound he makes is deep, animalistic, and his hands grip her hips as he grinds against her through their clothes.

“More.” She sounds so goddamn needy that her face burns, but that's only because she _is_ needy. She feels starved for him, craves his touch, his kisses, his body. “Want you, York. I want all of you.”

The edge of teeth on one nipple, just enough to draw a muffled gasp from her, then York pulls back. Her pants and underwear come off in a second, and her back hasn't hardly hit the bed when he’s got a finger inside of her, playing with her inner lips as he kisses along her throat.

“No one else,” he whispers. “I'll break any hand that touches you.”

“Yes.” Her whisper is half strangled as she writhes desperately under his touch, already overwhelmed but still wanting more. “You're all I want. All I ever want. _Fuck_ \--” Her hips jerk up towards his fingers of their own accord, and the thin thirsty moan that escapes her lips is shaming.

He adds a second, teasing her with how deep he could go but won't, delicate fluttering touches that slip out to trace light circles around her sex and don't slip back inside until she's frantic for it. Fully clothed, he looms over her, every kiss gentle and light as though his touch isn't filthy between her legs.

“I'll protect you. No matter what it takes. I swear, Carolina,” and he touches her forehead with his, lips so close to hers she can feel the shape of his words. “I won't leave you behind.”

It's hard to concentrate on anything he's saying, not when his fingers are making every nerve in her body sing. Carolina clutches at him, her fingers clawing into his back through his shirt. “Yes, god- _fuck_ \--” Eloquence has gone out the window along with self control, and Carolina reaches up to sink her teeth into York's shoulder.

He gasps, lips brushing her neck, then moans into her collarbone. She's got a mouthful of shirt but it's the idea behind it, the flash of pain that gets him going. But when her grip lets up York pins her to the bed with both hands on her shoulders and devours her so thoroughly with a kiss that she leans back, gasping for breath.

Carolina brings her knees up on either side of him, stroking her thighs along his body before relaxing so they drop open, a clear invitation. She has to be leaving wet spots on his clothes, but the thought only leaves dark satisfaction, marking York as hers. The soft whine that escapes his lips only increases her delight, but to her surprise he doesn't strip; merely works his pants down just enough to pull his cock free and teases her with the head.

“You like this? You want this?” He knows she does, but he wants to hear her voice, steady and strong, assuring him she’s alive. “Tell me. Tell me you want it. Tell me you need me.”

“I need you. Of course I need you.” Carolina's eyes squeeze shut, feeling York cock pressing against her but never hard enough to enter. Her hands shake and she wonders if this feeling alone would be enough to drive her insane. Her heart is pounding almost as hard as her head, and she tries to relax, melt into the sheets and just accept whatever he is willing to give.

“And this?” He keeps stroking her, teasing her. “You need this?”

“As much as I need to breathe.” She wants to seize his hips, drive him into her and end the torment, but something in his voice stops her. “I missed you. Come home, York. I need you. I need you in me.”

It's what he wanted to hear. York breaches her with a fluid movement, slipping almost all the way in with the first thrust and he has to bite his tongue to keep quiet. She’s maddeningly slick and tight, and he wants to make her scream but not from pain so he holds as still as possible to let her adjust.

“ _Don't stop_.” The sudden punch of satisfaction leaves her nearly winded and she grips the sleeves of York's shirt with both hands. She arches her back as she tries to move against him, to spur him on. “Don't stop. _More_.”

Words fail him, so he presses his forehead against the side of her neck and growls as he obeys, rocking his hips to bury himself completely in her, ease out a couple inches and thrust in deeper; he keeps his pace slow but each motion is sharp, hard, aimed to drive her out of mind and body alike.

He draws a moan out of her with his first thrust, and it bleeds into the next. His movements are measured by the her volume, the way she breaks from a low moan to a soft keening that rises and falls with each movement. Carolina tries to move against his rhythm, to reciprocate and take him deeper, but the pain in her head makes it difficult. She clutches him to her, nails digging in through his shirt and struggles to turn the sound of her wordless desire into his name.

“I've got you, I've got you,” he rasps into her ear, nibbling the lobe. York slips a hand down to gently pinch a nipple, stroke little circles around her clit. “You're safe. You're _mine_. Lemme take care of you.”

“Yours.” The harder it becomes to concentrate, the easier it is to submit to York's attentions. But she is Carolina -- and it is almost instinct that wraps her legs around him, gripping him with her thighs just enough to restrict before bending her neck to bite him again. Around a mouthful of cloth and skin, she growls back in response -- “ _Mine_.”

“No one else’s,” he agrees, too caught up to think about what he’s saying. “Only yours. Always yours.”

Her legs impede his rhythm so he has to find other ways to drive her wild.

“God, you like this don't you?” he asks, rhetorical and breathless. “Like turning someone like me into a mess, don't you? You think they know, the rest of the ship, that after hours we fuck like animals? Do you think they’re jealous? I want them to be. I want them to know there's nothing I wouldn't do for you, want them to hear what I sound like when I come inside you, want them to be sure that there's only one name on my lips when I go to sleep at night.”

“Yes…” Carolina releases her grip on him with her teeth, buries her face into neck. The pictures he paints so vividly for her steals her breath and she pants against his skin, trying to pull herself back together. But it feels like she’s slowly rattling into pieces, coming apart at the seams for him, and she’s loving every inch, every second.

“And I want them to hear me moan your name,” she replies. “I want everyone to hear what you are doing to me. I want them to know that it’s you, that you are the only one who will ever touch me, ever again. And I want them to hear how well you do it, York. I want to wake up the entire barracks screaming as you push me over the edge. I want them all to know you are mine to your core. Fuck--”

York groans into her pillow, pace stuttering as he pulls himself back from the edge. Not yet, not yet, he wants to last longer. “God, I wish. I want to fuck you everywhere, be fucked everywhere, I don't wanna hide a moment of this because this is real, and so damn good, and I want--“

He wants too much, but so has she. Both of them, ambitious in their own way. “I want you to show me off, flaunt how well you've trained me, how good I fuck you on your command-- god, damn, I can't--”

York’s pace speeds up, movements getting rougher until the slap of their skin is loud despite him still wearing all his clothes.

“Please, please, Carolina, please be close, I'm so--”

“Yes-- yes, I’m--” Carolina gasps, her hand searching for his on the sheets. “With me, York-- come with me--”

He crushes her to him when he comes, arms wrapped around her so tight she’s immobilized, his face buried in her shoulder and smothering his cries against her skin. He never wants to let go of her, either, wants to stay like this and shield her from anything that could happen to her, wants so badly one day for the seed he pours into her to stay and create a child. But these are all things that he has to keep quiet, because as much as they want to they cannot be heard.

She hears him, the way he cries out, feels the pulse of his body against hers and she’s gone. Her headache deters nothing, and even the way she’s getting lightheaded from York squeezing the breath out of her only deepens her orgasm. Carolina twitches against him, gasping and moaning, holding as tightly to him as he does to her.

When they start to come down, they do it together too; shuddering breaths slowly even out, muscles that have seized with pleasure relax, tremors slow and ease. York finds his eyes heavy, and blinks away a couple tears.

“Don't die,” he whispers, afterglow leaving him honest. “I'll follow you there, too.”

“York,” Carolina murmurs, blindly pressing her lips against whichever part of him is closest. “You’re good, but not fatally good.” She cracks an eye, trying to catch his eye, just so he knows she’s joking, but her eyes won't focus properly and she closes them again. “I’m okay. We’re both okay. And we always will be, okay? One way or another, we will be together to the end.”

He kisses her cheek, slowly and lightly as a drop of rain. Again, again, a tender downpour.

“I know.” After a beat, once the moment has sunk into their bones, he adds, “what a way to go, huh? Dicked down to death.”

“I can think of few better ways.” The softness of the moment is getting to her, despite her teasing. She brushes her fingers up along his back, weaving them together behind York's neck to pull him to her for a kiss. “Well, my headache is gone.”

“Oh. That's… good. Was I too rough?” Resting on his elbows, he frames her face with his arms and keeps with the slow, delicate kisses, savoring each one.

“Not at all.” God, but she could stay like this for hours -- York's lips are as good as a massage, her orgasm and his kisses both turning her muscles to jelly. “Was perfect.”

He shifts his weight on top of her, trying to find the most comfortable position. And then he feels how damp his pants are and winces.

“Do I have extra clothes here? Or am I gonna have to walk back to my room looking like I pissed myself?”

Carolina can't bite back a smile as she deliberately wraps her legs around him, feeling his semen leaking out, and for once, loving it. “Dunno, but you really better hope so now!”

He makes a sound of mock disgust. “Like most of it isn't yours, from me making you so wet in the first place.” York doesn't try to hide his grin as he swoops to kiss along her neck, whisper in her ear, “filthy, filthy woman.”

“Oh spare me… it’s probably just your precum, slut.” She giggles as she tilts her head back, both hands coming up into his hair, scratching along his scalp encouragingly as her eyes close again in enjoyment. “I've always loved how easy you are. How you fall apart at a touch.”

“Only for you, though. But, yes.” A gentle bite, just the hint of teeth far too light to leave a mark. “I am a bit of a slut.”

“Good. Never change.” Carolina cracks an eye open and grins down at him. “Or...maybe just change your pants. But nothing else.”

York nuzzles her again and kicks them off entirely. “Yes, ma’am.”

——

Hours later, when Carolina is asleep, York reaches off the bed to dig Delta’s chip out of his pockets. Even in the dark, he can fumble the AI back in; even in the dark, he feels the change wash over his body as every sense restarts in order to be shared by a second consciousness.

“So,” York asks softly, more shaping the words with his lips than speaking them. Delta hears the words through his thoughts, anyway. “You gonna tell me who Allison is?”

“ _Who_?”

“Allison. The name you kept calling for when Carolina went down.”

A pause, then a spike of a headache as Delta does some calculating. “ _The name does not match anything in the database of relevant staff on the Mother Of Invention. Nor does it seem to relate to anyone of the UNSC soldiers we were allied with today. There are a few of course, it’s a common Earth name meaning—_ “

“It’s not it. It was personal to you. She was.” The way it twisted at his heart, the way it made him sick with terror and longing. “You’ve said the name before.”

“ _My apologies. I cannot find anything in my memory banks under that name._ ”

York sighs and turns his head to study Carolina beside him, dozing away. She looks peaceful in the dim lighting, smaller without her armor. A surge of love builds up in his chest, but York pushes it back down.

Let her rest. Let all of them rest. There will be time for more mysteries tomorrow. All that matters is that she is here, beside him, and whole.

He can’t ask for anything more.


End file.
